


morning after (it's a bitch)

by clandestineClairvoyant



Series: Strut on a line, it's discord and rhyme [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Gen, Injury, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 19:47:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19708204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clandestineClairvoyant/pseuds/clandestineClairvoyant
Summary: Steve almost forgot about his house guest.He actually gets a kick out of how angry she looks, not at all impressed with him- Or anyone else really. Gotta dig chicks like that. Brows knit together, and mouth turned down in a frown that wouldn’t be misplaced on a cop. Likehe’sdoing something wrong, walking into his own kitchen and coughing into a fist. Combined with the severe shape of her shaved head, it’s surprisingly intimidating for a little girl.This one can throw a pickup truck like a hot wheel, but still.He’d had to carry her most of the way back from the school. On his back, unconscious, with her arms looped around his neck and blood pooling in the waistband of his sweats. It had been a long, cold trek, the sharp ozone smell of water freezing far above their heads gusting with every breeze as he sniffed, and sneezed, and shuffled his way back home. Steve had been grateful that he at least had the sweats and shoes, as torn as they were.His shirt had been tattered where he’d thrown it, by some fucking miracle of science and misfortune that could only happen to him, so he’d suffered without, and he’s about sixty percent sure his nipples are never going to be the same.





	morning after (it's a bitch)

Steve wakes up, despite all odds, on his couch the day after everything. His moms prickly decorative afghan is draped over him, sweat sticking his skin to the leather couch like someone’s glued him in his sleep. Not an unfamiliar sensation for him. This couch has seen some _shit._  
He feels like shit- skin and muscle and bone all throbbing where he’s gone and laid flat, sleeping so deep it’s like the blood pooled in his bruises. It’s suffocating under the starched heat of the blanket, and the first thing he does after craning his eyes open is struggle free, swearing faintly.  
The bruises look nasty in the yellow glare of the side table lamp when he drags himself upright, using the back of the couch for leverage. They paint his side a bright mottled purple, with lurid red spots, and Steve can’t help wincing at the pull of them on his ribs and thigh as he moves. His face and shoulders still burn from the cuts at the Byers, claw marks that he hadn’t even managed to butterfly shut, before he’d been forced to change _again,_ and lay the beat down on that monster at the school without a break between.  
Nothing’s _bleeding_. Well, not _profusely_ , the mottled stains on the blanket don’t count. So he ignores it for now, exception made for scratching idly at the ripped bridge of his nose he can make out between his eyes, and wincing when, _surprise_ jackass, it _hurts_.

It’s quiet, except for the occasional clatter of a dish, and a scuffle from the kitchen. There’s the sounds of birds outside, something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing for the past couple of months until now. It’s probably what had him sleeping so long. Despite the terror of last night, and the feeling like he might have knocked a tooth loose on an aliens femur, he might even think everything was back to normal.

_Yeah fucking right._

Steve can smell the dry mildewy cold of the inside of the freezer wafting to where he is, door probably hanging open, and the sugary burn of something toasting. Steve’s a teenage boy; If he hadn’t attuned his wolf senses to the smell of snack food burning in a toaster, he’d have starved to death before he was fourteen. As it is, he has about one minute before there’s an emergency in his kitchen, if his nose is accurate.  
_(It always is.)_  
Almost every light is on in the house, every lamp, every switch. The power bill is going to be fucking ridiculous; but Steve thinks of that _thing_ , coming out of a wall, and decides it’s worth it. Even as he lumbers up off the couch with a grimace, and has to make a circuit of the room to slap most of them back off again, shuffling like an old man and gritting his teeth.  
He drags the afghan bundled under his arm back up onto his bare shoulders once he’s done, still tacky with dirt and blood and a streak of something black and flaking, and shuffles to the kitchen to save whatever’s starting to burn in the toaster.

He almost forgot about his house guest.

Eleven stares back at him with wide eyes, not looking the least bit surprised from where she’s standing on a stool to reach a high shelf, all knobby knees and pointy elbows and kind of a sharp face. A little ratty. That’s not nice, but hey, she’s looking pretty good for some government basement experiment.  
He actually gets a kick out of how angry she looks, not at all impressed with him, or anyone else really. Gotta dig chicks like that. Brows knit together, and mouth turned down in a frown that wouldn’t be misplaced on a cop. Like _he’s_ doing something wrong, walking into his own kitchen and coughing into a fist. Combined with the severe shape of her shaved head, it’s surprisingly intimidating for a little girl.  
This one can throw a pickup truck like a _hot wheel_ , but still.  
He’d had to carry her most of the way back from the school. On his back, with her arms looped around his neck, and blood pooling in the waistband of his sweats. It had been a long, cold trek, the sharp ozone smell of water freezing far above their heads gusting with every breeze as he sniffed and sneezed and shuffled his way back home. Steve had been grateful that he at _least_ had the sweats and shoes, as torn as they were.  
His shirt had been tattered where he’d thrown it, by some fucking miracle of science and misfortune that could only happen to _him,_ so he’d suffered without, and he’s about sixty percent sure his nipples are never going to be the same.

The kid’s wearing one of his old shirts and a clean pair of athletic socks, fresh smelling from the shower Steve had forced her into when they’d come back freezing cold from the middle school. He’s not the smartest bulb in the box, or whatever, but he’s an Indiana native. He knows how to get warm, and with a kid that skinny he wasn’t taking any chances. Pink taffeta may be cute, but it did jack shit against the cold, even if she was snuggled up to a hot side of Harrington the whole walk.

The kid acted like she’d never seen hot water before of course, and hadn’t protested when Steve told her to leave the door cracked, in case she fell or something. That’s what people did with kids right? Especially one who’d passed out recently? Leave the door open?  
He’d just laid face and nose down on the carpet in the hall and waited for her to finish. Her extravagantly long shower was interrupted by his occasional energetic swearing, as some fresh new hellish part of him throbbed or twinged. He felt like his Great-Grandpa Siena looked. Chewed up shit. It was a credit to how tired he was that the burning itch of the cuts on his face and side hadn’t kept him up, after tucking a damp and protesting Eleven into his bed, light switch on and window triple checked with great exaggeration, for her narrow-eyed benefit.

Of course, he can’t catch a break, because she’s thanking him by trying to burn his house down this beautiful monster-free morning.

“What the hell are you _doing_?” He asks wearily, shuffling over to the toaster to save the- _whole un-sliced bagel_ , currently shoved into the slot.  
He tosses it from hand to hand after plucking it out, hissing at the heat, before lobbing it onto the counter, faintly blackened. The toaster gives a cheery _ding,_ and pops empty only moments after he does, leaving Eleven glaring at it in indignation and Steve flinching.  
“ _Eggo’s_.” She says firmly, leaning almost flat along the counter to reach past Steve and get the molten hot bagel steaming behind him. The stool she’s balancing on, an ancient and ornamental affair that was the source of many a childhood accident for Steve, tips drastically. He dives forward to catch her, right under the arms, and they both almost end up on the floor.  
“ _Alright,_ geez.” He growls, righting her, his side twinging painfully as the weight of her pulls on his upper body. His chest tightens oddly while he does, like the one time he had pneumonia, and he starts to cough irritably as he sets her safely on the floor.  
It rises to a rattle when Steve tries to straighten up, and he catches the counter, holding himself up at a hurt kind of angle as he wheezes for breath, feeling liquid spin behind his sternum and almost losing his blanket.  
Eleven gives him an odd look, seemingly unconcerned while he chokes and tries to drag air in, moving around him to get her bagel. She doesn’t do much but give a hiss when it singes her fingers, bouncing it a moment, and ignoring the irritable kick Steve aims at her ankle. She chews happily out of range, leaning her thin bony back against the counter and watching Steve almost drop dead from hacking up a lung.  
He’d roll his eyes, but he’s too busy forcing something solid out of his guts.  
Christ on a cracker, she’s a cold bitch. Steve still digs it, but not when he’s going to _die_ from alien consumption or what the fuck ever.  
He moves quickly, so he can throw up in the sink with deep coughing contractions, gagging, black splattering in the bottom of his moms shiny porcelain sink. It looks thick and viscous, and he blearily thinks through watery eyes and burning nose that if cancer could be bottled, it’d look like that. He doesn’t think he swallowed that much of the shit, but _apparently_ he must have, if it's making a repeat performance.  
The worst part, he thinks, as he runs the tap, and sticks his mouth under to suck greedily at the water still moving sluggishly through winter frosted pipes- Is that it’s not even body temperature, like spit or vomit. It’s cold as ice coming up his throat, burning, and he swears he can feel it churning in his stomach.  
He woozily lays his head on the counter when he’s finished, small shivers of aftershocks in his gut, and feeling feverish even as his stomach turns in cold circles, and his head spins.  
Eleven moves up and wrinkles her nose, chewing in supreme unconcern on a bagel and peering down at Steve like he’s something in the zoo. She evaluates the sink before making a brisk noise of dismissal.  
“Gross.” She announces, pushing the last half of the bagel into her mouth in some kind of monstrous snake-like swallow, cheeks bulging. She pats him perfunctorily on the shoulder with fingers still covered in crumbs, chewing like a chipmunk.

He sighs heavily. “Eat your fucking bagel, and go put on some cartoons.” He says over the sound of the running tap. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Eleven gives him a dubious look, but listens, padding off on thick stockinged feet. The television turns on with a hiss and a click before she even makes it through the kitchen doorway, the loud sounds of Scooby Doo crackling in static a second before coming loud and clear enough for Steve to flinch.

Once he’s sure she’s occupied, he leans over the sink again, and sticks fingers down his throat, He doesn’t let up, until he’s gagging, stomach clenching.

Then he’s throwing up, icy black goo coating his teeth and throat and chin, and eyes watering miserably. He feels it all the way down under his ribs and in the sore torn muscles of his stomach where the thing tried to gut him. He’s pretty sure the gash on his side is bleeding again from the strain, if the coppery smell he can barely make out over his stinging nose and eyes is anything to go by.  
He doesn’t stop until he’s weak kneed and shivering, nothing more coming up but hot air and bad feelings, and just feeling tired and sore enough to fucking _die.* He watches what looks like motor oil crossed with table syrup swirl down the drain, something about it looking alive enough to make him want to puke all over again when it wiggles a little and slips over the edge of the drain. Like a slug._  
Steve runs the sink until the goo is probably ten miles down the pipes, and slaps it off. His mouth is still coated and sticky after rinsing it clean, tasting like blood and cancer, so he moves to the fridge to take a few swallows of milk out of the cartoon, the faintest hint of sourness to it telling him he _should probably_ finish it off.  
He does, and drinks the juice too, some of it spilling out of the corners of his mouth and onto his chin. He gasps wetly and puts it back, wiping with the back of his hand as he shuts the fridge and shuffles back in to the living room, where he hears a small giggle and clumsy sound effects from whatever cartoon is playing on television.  
He’s honestly too tired to tell what it is.  
“Hey. My turn to shower.” Steve informs Eleven shortly, holding himself up in the doorway and throbbing with aches and pains. She turns to look over her shoulder, a quick flick up and down of her eyes, before turning wordlessly back to the tv. She’s getting crumbs everywhere, but Steve ignores it in favor of immersing himself in hot water as soon as he’s physically able to.  
He probably should’ve showered last night, but even now fatigue is dragging at him. He doesn’t know if it’s something about changing so much so quickly when he never has before, traipsing through half of goddamn Hawkins Indiana with a passed out kid on his back, or getting thrown around like a ragdoll by an interdimensional monster- But his shoulders and back stiffen and clench up as soon as he so much as _looks_ at something on the floor. He feels like an old man.  
Hot water should fix him up though.  
Steve runs a shower, skinning his sweats off to stand naked and brush his teeth a few hundred times before getting in. He scrapes his tongue raw with the bristles, and even flosses for good measure, normally a monthly occasion.  
All the while the bathroom fills with steam, fogging the mirror and cutting off the battered bruised view of his upper torso. He gives it an errant wipe when he’s done brushing, a swathe of sleep bruised eye and hair, paper thin and pale skin appearing framed in the condensation.  
He evaluates his reflection a moment, bearing blunt human teeth, and taking a moment to think, to press-

__

And then they’re sharper. Wolf teeth.

Steve shuts his mouth and goes to get clean.

The shower is needle sharp when he gets in, pulsing hot over his aching muscles and sluicing the dried blood and mud off of his feet, running brownish down his legs and into the bottom of the tub. There’s a little more rust red than he thought when he moves his back to the spray, and he assumes it’s because little Firestarter nose-bled all over his goddamn bare back.

He’s in there a while.

Long enough, that he gets tired, and pulls the plug on the tub to sit waist deep in the warm shower water. He lets the spray beat down on his head, flattening his hair and dripping into his eyes and down his chin. The water’s running clean now, but he’s too tired to do his normal hair routine, so Steve ends up just scrubbing off with pine scented bar soap, and using some of his mom’s gentler scented shampoo she left in there last time she used his bathroom.  
Everything seems to be giving him a headache at the moment, but it’s better than the blood and chemical smell he has whiffs of right now.  
After he’s smelling like a chemically scented lemon pine forest, he lets the tub drain and steps out to wrap himself in the thick, buttery towels the housekeeper left last week. She’s not due for another six days, so Steve figures he’s good to hide a little psychic in his living room for a bit.

Or until Nancy comes back, and tells him the government wasn’t going to be kicking their door in. Whichever comes first.

To be fair, he _was_ the best option. He heard fucking Stacy Miller’s juiced out boyfriend every time he got within a quarter mile of the Harrington house, stumbling into her backyard two houses over. He’s pretty sure he could pick up on a squad of assassins. Or whatever they’d send to bring back a little girl who killed people with her mind. After fighting off that demi-demon-gorgon _thing,_ he thinks he can probably handle some government spooks.  
Maybe. As long as he didn’t have to bend down. His back was _killing_ him.  
By the time Steves finished rubbing himself dry, snow’s started to drift down outside the narrow bathroom window, white and silent enough that even _he_ can’t hear it land on the lawn. It’s oddly peaceful, and when he checks the clock in the hall, steam clouding around as he opens the door, it’s one in the afternoon. He spent two hours in the bathroom sulking.

He could probably spend five, but decides he has a kid in the house now and has to set a good example.

“You burn the house down yet?” He yells down the stairs, clinging to the towel around his hips and pushing his damp hair up out of his face. The sound of the television drifts up, channels changing regularly as a heartbeat. Creepy, but not his problem if she wants to fry her brain.  
There’s a moment of silence, and then a picture on the wall next to him makes itself crooked with a whisper of motion. Steve thinks he can hear that same faint whine, the buzz in his teeth and sinuses that means little firestarters probably telling him to shove it.

“Alright then.” He mutters, rolling his eyes, and going to his room.

His bed looks mussed when he flips the light on, like someone had slept in it. But that doesn’t mean much, because Steve Harrington has never made a bed in his life even under pain of ensured grounding.  
It only takes a frown and a moment for him to lean over and scent it, still stale and smelling like Steve, cold. After a moment’s thought, he gets on hands and knees, and peers underneath. There’s a blanket shoved against the wall, in the same familiar corner that he can still find little scratches and claw marks if he decided to flash a light under there, about the width of a much smaller Steve’s handspan.  
There’s also a ragged stuffed bear he thought he’d lost forever ago, his face prickling with the heat of a blush as he rolls his eyes and fishes it out, pressed flat on his stomach. It’s soft and worn with age, gold fur with a prickly vinyl blue ribbon wrapped around its neck, stuffing peeking from the corners of its elbows and eye. It flops around when Steve turns it over, grinning faintly to see little teeth marks on it like a dog got at it.  
He honestly can’t even remember it’s name. He thinks it was maybe a cheap airport gift from a relative, one of the few toys he had that escaped the purge of his Dad throwing them out when he hit twelve. It even had ‘Chicago’ written across one foot in picked red thread, fraying off slightly and pulling the fabric around it.

He throws it on the bed and gets dressed.

The time it takes him to get his wounds all taken care of the best he can, and then gingerly pull soft clothes over them, is long enough that the snow is coming down steadily. A white flurry outside his window, building up like rime in the corners and chilling the air until Steve is snatching a non-blood-stained blanket off of his bed to wrap cape-like around his shoulders.

He shuffles downstairs, sniffing miserably with the bear tucked under his arm.

Eleven is sitting on the couch, straight backed and attentive to the flash of the TV screen. _The Young and Restless_ is playing, and Steve makes a terrible face at her even as he tosses the bear loosely on the couch.  
“Found this under my bed. Something you wanna tell me?” He asks her, flopping down heavily enough to almost knock her over as the seat cushions bounce. She looks irritated, giving him a glare frosty enough to freeze his balls- But she’s also shivering a little.  
Steve throws a corner of the blanket over her, sniffing heavily. “You can keep ‘im.” He grumbles, settling down in the couch, feeling weak and tired, and coughing a rattling cough into his own corner of the blanket. Someone on the tv starts wailing great big fake sobs, and he wrinkles his nose. “I don’t need him all that much anymore, if you know what I mean.” He says pointlessly, probably a little delirious still. He feels a little dizzy from coming down the stairs, which probably isn’t great.  
Might have just been the heat of the shower, or bending down a bunch. Blood rushing to his head.  
Eleven blinks wide at him, her face all weirdly thin and startled, some crumbs still in the corner of her mouth. She looks down, and slowly picks up the bear, tucking it under her arm, and fiddling with the ribbon in an oddly focused way.  
Steve is reminded of a stray animal, or a cat.  
He doesn’t bother her, blinking slowly at the show on the tv, not taking any of it in. Mostly he’s just thinking about how the flimsy the lock on the front door is, how a well placed rock would get someone through the windows in the kitchen. He’s thinking about how someone died in his fucking back yard, stinking until Steve was gagging on stolen menthol cigarettes, and not able to sleep until he parked his car out behind the highschool on the weekends and stretched awkwardly in the oversized back seat.

He’s thinking about how he’s never had a sibling, never had a pet, never taken _care_ of anyone but himself before- And now there’s a little girl sitting next to him watching _The Young and Restless_ , turn into _Love Boat,_ who Steve would be willing to bet any kind of money has never seen a fucking vegetable in her life.

It’s freezing, so he gets up and fumbles the box of long matches off of the mantle, shivering and shoving the blackened remains of the last fire he started into a pile under the starter logs. The seasoned dry wood is a reassuring sharp pull on his nose where it’s piled next to the fireplace. His dad stocks up while he’s there, some sort of manly stick up his ass not allowing him to let his kid go out and bring wood home for fire; A primeval provider part of his brain makes him go out and _at least_ get it from the guy in a pickup out by the highway, rather than allow Steve to scrounge it from the local quick-stop.  
In only a moment he has a fire going, throwing a couple logs on to catch, warmth and the reassuring smoke smell coming up around his face as he lingers and warms his hands. When he turns, he pauses, Eleven watching him wide eyed over her knees, his shirt- _thank all that is good_ \- covering her as well as a blanket would.  
Okay, probably has never seen a fireplace before. Add bagels, dogs, teddy bears, indoor heating, and probably a hairbrush to the list.  
He flops down next to her as soon as the fire starts crackling and he gets tired of balancing on his heels, groaning, and curling up at the end of the couch. He can already feel the languid burn of his muscles now that they’ve been warmed up by the shower, his cuts itching and throbbing underneath bandages.  
“I’ll make us some pasta later.” He mumbles at her, half squashed on the arm of the couch. He can already tell by the pins and needles that it’s going to hurt like a bitch to sleep like that, but it’s not like he has a say in the matter. “Shut the blinds, will you?” He mumbles.  
There’s silence from next to him, but as he waits and listens for an answer with his eyes closed, he starts to drift a bit.  
The blanket snakes itself up over his shoulder, and before he falls the rest of the way to sleep, he feels a small body press itself up against his legs; All knobbly knees and elbows, and the irritating vinyl prickle of his old stuffed bear against his shoulder.

\~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steve snaps awake at the sound of a car in the driveway, sleep fuzzy and blinking at the dim afternoon light.  
The sun’s almost gone, and his ass is freezing where the blanket flipped up and got left draped over his hip. The rest of him is sleep warm and loose, with a crick in his neck that’s going to turn into a full blown migraine if he stays twisted up like a pretzel for much longer.  
The day is cooling and he shivers. Partly because he feels vaguely feverish, and partly because the heating crapped out and hasn’t kicked on regularly like it should have. That Indiana cold isn’t anything to sniff at.  
The fire’s low; But before he can get up and poke it back into life, his bleary ears consciously pick up the hum-click of an engine turning off, the crunch of footsteps up the walk that woke him in the first place.  
Steve scrambles to his feet, joints clicking, and pads out to the entryway the same time he hears a creak of floorboards. When he looks up to the side he catches sight of Eleven coming down the stairway from upstairs, bear shoved under her chin, and looking oddly dangerous for someone holding a stuffed animal with two arms.  
He puts one finger up, still groggy from sleep, and presses it to his lips. Eleven nods solemnly.

And then he goes to the door.

He opens it before anyone can knock, and he blinks muzzily at Chief Hopper on the other side.

Steve has seen Hopper from a distance more times than he can count; Pulling over drunks, breaking up fights outside Benny Hammond’s twenty-four hour place, and even sipping coffee at Lorries diner on main street.

But, here’s the thing;

He’s never been within smelling distance.

Steve freezes as soon as the door’s open, frowning with a weird furrow between his brows, his lips lifting up faintly in confusion.  
“Don’t freak out.” Hopper orders as soon as the door’s open, his voice the low growl of a smoker. He’s standing against the faint gray-and-white background of the snowfall outside, hands upraised, looking unshaven with weariness and sour-smelling with frustration.  
He’s also smelling like something else.  
Steve kind of freaks out.  
He doesn’t know _why_ he does it, obviously. Otherwise he fucking _wouldn’t_ have. But in the brief moment where he’s standing there quivering with indecision, Hopper steps in, and Steve _lunges_ at him, snarling like a chainsaw and blanket falling behind him.

“God _damn it_ -” Hopper swears, and there’s a sharp pressure around Steve’s neck even as his claws find purchase in Hoppers forearms, drawing bright lines over the sheriffs rolled up sleeves.

Hopper shoves him back, almost tripping over his feet as Steve snarls and tries to get a bite out of him, shutting the front door behind the tangle of the two of them and growling his own frustrated sound as he gets Steve inside and out of the cold at arms length.  
” _No!_ ” Eleven snaps, furious-  
But Steve doesn’t even _hear_ her, suddenly narrowing his vision into Hopper, bile rising up hot in his throat and pissed off, hands caught up in an iron grip and held away from his chest while Hopper tries to keep Steve from clawing his uniform to shreds.  
“I’m _trying_ , for fucks sake-” Hopper swears at Eleven, and summarily throws Steve into the wall. The drywall dents and breaks as easily as skin, the smell of dust and paint clouding around him with a shocking intensity. Steve blinks all dazed and confused from the floor, his lip still lifted for some reason and snarling like a dog after a bone.  
He feels confused, staggering to his knees and touching his side hesitantly, peering around and shaking his head, heart pounding hard enough to burst out of his chest for no apparent reason besides, ‘ _someone in my house’._  
Unfortunately, peering around he sees Hopper, and lunges at him _again_ as soon as he does.  
“Swear I’m trying kid, just _give me a minute_ -” Hopper growls out to Eleven, rumbling and pressing at Steve with the same push he’s giving back.

It clicks into place. It’s kind of embarrassing honestly, he didn’t notice before.

Steve doesn’t really get those clicking, lightbulb moments.  
Not dumb, friendly Steve Harrington, who’s desperately grateful for his patient, straight-A girlfriend.  
Steve Harrington, who never finishes books because he can’t focus without medication, and the medication makes him lose interest.  
Steve Harrington, who’s parents haven’t gotten a report card for two years, since he’s been barely able to drag his grades up enough to stay in basketball.  
Steve Harrington, doesn’t get, _“ah ha!”_ Moments.

But Hopper rips out a growl that sounds more animal than smoker, and throws Steve into the other wall with the momentum of his own clumsy lunge, sending photos tumbling off their hooks with a shatter, and Steve thinks,  
“ _Oh_.”  
Teeth too long to fit in a human mouth lift up inches from his own face, wide eyed and snarling and heart beating a frightened confused patter. Even as Steve’s urge to tear into the Sheriff reaches an unreasonable fever pitch, Hopper gets him by the neck in a grip like iron, shaking him enough to rattle his teeth and knock him stupid against the wall.  
“ _Knock it off for Christ’s sake.”_ Hopper growls out, giving Steve a moment to not be bat shit insane, holding him at arms length by the neck, other fist caught up around Steve’s wrist to keep his claws away from shredding distance. “Shit kid, _relax_.”  
Steve blinks, panting, and tries to shake Hopper off, more confused than anything, and giving Eleven a forbidding look where she’s creeping down the stairs. She looks furious, like she’s sick of their shit, and normally Steve would find it hilarious. She looks downright _managerial._  
Right now he’s mainly pretty stressed out.  
“ _What. The fuck.”_ He says in a heartfelt yell, feeling like he must still be sleeping. No fucking way the sheriff has been a werewolf (he hates that stupid word) _this whole time_.  
Steve’s never been close to him, admittedly. And the guy mostly smells like the station; Bourbon, and cheap trucker beer, and _overwhelmingly_ of cigarettes. Not the cheap menthols or the hand rolled old country cusses smoked. He smokes what Steve privately thinks of as the “cop kind”. Shared by firemen, police officers, and most first responders.  
He kind of associated it with car accidents from the few that happened in Hawkins around that lethal bend in Shingle road, all the EMT’s and cops with flashing lights gathered around some smoking wreck with nothing much to do but smoke, and shoot the shit, and wait for the highway patrol to take anything hard off their hands.  
He also smells like dog, a damp animal smell that Steve realizes woodenly he’s always picked up on, but never really thought about. Especially since according to small town gossip, Old Hop didn’t _have_ a dog, or a place to put one in that trailer of his on the edge of town.  
Jesus, he’s stupid.  
All of this comes together when Hop snarls too big teeth at him, eyes flashing a dangerous flat grey, and Steve also realizes he’s still growling in fitful starts and bursts, in his chest, more nervous than anything.  
“ _No.”_ Eleven threatens again from the stairs, and Steve hears that high pitched hum that has both him and Hop flinching. The sheriff immediately takes his hands away, slowly, holding them flat and up and out and backing to the other side of the hall. When Steve doesn’t lose his goddamn _marbles_ and go after him again, he removes his hat and runs his free hand through his hair with a tired, haggard look on his face.  
“Yeah yeah kid, look everyone’s getting along.” Hopper tells her in a faintly mocking tone, which she doesn’t seem to deem respectful if the imperious look she levels at him is anything to go by. “Keep your brain to yourself- _And would you quit that racket.”_  
Steve stops growling.  
He coughs nervously into his fist, still pressed to the wall like he can disappear into it, and not deal with whatever is going on. “Sorry.”  
“Don’t sweat it.” Hopper tells him. “Thought that might happen anyway- Would’ve warned you, but those sons of-” He Seems to notice Eleven listening keenly, and makes a face. “ _Bad people,_ have everyone fucking tapped. If anyone asks, you reported a bear in your trash cans.” He adds on with a point of his finger, moving further into the house, and giving Steve a faintly amused look when he starts up with the noisy growling again.  
Steve blushes, _mortified,_ knocking it off and trailing after, still reeling.  
“Uh, so. I’m guessing you’re not. New to this?” He asks faintly, as Hopper stands in Steve’s living room, taking in the dimmed remains of the fire, the various shit Eleven pulled out of drawers and cupboards while Steve slept and left strewn across the marble and carpet.  
He’s breathing heavy, Steve notes, until he realizes he’s _scenting,_ like Steve does, and he realizes with a mute embarrassment that Nancy probably knew every time he couldn’t help but shove his whole fuckin head in her arms, and under her chin.  
Eleven follows as well, looking satisfied they’re not trying to kill each other, and starts proprietarily moving to the kitchen to raid the fridge.  
“Shut it behind you this time.” Steve calls after her, unwilling, _unable, to take his eyes off Hopper, who’s tucking his hat under his elbow and trying to look disarming as possible._  
“Don’t blame yourself for the whole-“ He waves a hand vaguely towards the hall. “Took you by surprise, it’s your house and all. To be expected.” He says, almost kindly, and Steve blinks all slow and stupid at him.  
“Alright I may be still dreaming. That’s uh, that’s fine, that’s great-“ Steve says shortly, pushing his hair back from his head with a shaky exhale. His eyes fall on the almost cold fire and he moves for it, skirting around Hopper as he does to kneel down and poke it back to life.  
His neck and back prickle, another uncomfortable growl bubbling up in his gut- But Hopper doesn’t seem to mind, talking as he moves to the sliding door to peer out the blinds.  
“The kids fill you in?” Hop asks, his breath fogging up the window, limned in weak winter light stained blue by the pool out back.  
“Nancy did. Uh.” Steve swallows, standing and turning his back to a wall and feeling loose with relief when he does. His throat’s thick with nerves, and he feels a little trembly now that he’s not pissed off- The sensible, normal part of Steve is terrified at Hopper, an adult, someone who handed out traffic tickets and broke up college parties, being in his living room and talking about this.  
The other _not normal_ part of Steve, was tentatively wagging its tail.  
Hop shakes his head and let’s the blinds snap shut, seemingly satisfied by the perimeter. “I swear to god there’s so many moving pieces in this damned mess- Listen, your parents, you don’t tell them.” Without asking, he lights up a cigarette, sucking thoughtfully, looking through the wreath of gray smoke at Steve with those pale predator eyes. “I’m assuming you can keep a secret.”  
Steve nods dumbly, and picks up a coffee mug with an inch of ice cold coffee in the bottom and hands it to the sheriff, who ashes into it without breaking eye contact.  
“We’ll have a regular little chat soon- about all this,” Hopper waves a hand vaguely, cigarette glowing cherry red between his fingers. “As well as your little surprise.” He pokes the cigarette toward Steve’s chest where the blankets still bundled up. “But I’ve finished getting set up, and the kids coming with me-“  
“ _No.”_  
Hopper and Steve both turn in surprise, Eleven on the stairs, the comforter off Steve’s bed swimming around her, and little rat face looking murderous.  
“ _Yes._ ” Hop shoots back in about half a second flat.  
Eleven stomps her foot, and Steve is enchanted, because next to shoving a whole bagel down her throat this is the most normal little kid thing he’s seen her do. “ _No._ Gone. Stay.” She says firmly.  
“ _Yes,_ or do you wanna stay buddy buddy with Harrington here all day til his parents get home and kick you to the curb?”  
His parents aren’t coming home for a _while_ but Hop looks pretty amped up so Steve keeps his trap shut.  
Eleven sniffs imperiously. “ _Steve_ wants me to _stay.”_  
Hopper whips his head around with a glare, and Steve does two things in quick succession.  
One, is he puts his hands up placatingly, _Who me?_  
Two, something he hasn’t really done before, he looks down at the ground and hunches his shoulders. Stupid to do, because _why_ would you look at the ground when you’re trying to convince someone you have nothing to do with the wild shit coming out of this kids mouth?  
Apparently Hopper understands where Steve _doesn’t,_ because he gives a brief quick rumble of satisfaction that has Steve glowing a bit, and snaps his fingers at the kid.  
“Steve’s got enough problems without you eating him out of house and home. Now c’mon and find some shoes.”  
Eleven scowls, and Steve looks up in time to see her roll her eyes hugely at him.  
But she stomps off up the stairs, and after a moments hesitation, Steve slinks by Hopper, feeling rumbley and disquieted but weirdly content at the same time.  
His chest of thick with emotions and his heads still a little whirling, but rather than untangle it, he dives into the upstairs hall closet, with Eleven glowering at him, in order to dig out an old pair of sneakers from when he was a kid that don’t flop around too bad. Her socks bunch up over them, and he’s at a loss as to what to do about pants.  
“Guess your going to freeze your butt off.” He sighs, still kneeled down while he gets her shoes situated, tying the knot for her. “Hops truck is probably heated, just have to make it out to the car, ‘kay kid?”  
He’s startled by a hand on his head, looking up into her serious face, eye still red and blown, and Steve can still smell blood in her breath. Her hand moves down to cup his jaw, and he’s frozen.  
He’s not sure what she’s going to do. But she leaves her hand there, frowning, staring at him and into him, with him kneeling down and still with his fingers tangled in her shoelaces and her drowning in a comforter and socks and Steve’s old shirt like a dress-  
“ _Gone._ ” She says again, firmly, hand pressing hard enough to hurt one of the cuts on his face. But Steve doesn’t even feel it, tension bleeding from his shoulders.  
“Yeah. Gone.” He agrees, putting his own hand up to ruffle her shorn head. She blinks like an offended cat, but leans into it, shutting her bruised and bloody eyes.

“ _Ain’t got all day kid!”_ Hop yells from downstairs, and Steve swears he’s started another cigarette since he’d gone up to get Eleven shoes.  
She scowls hugely and Steve tries not to smile.  
“Alright, let’s get you out of here.” He says with a sigh, rescuing the bear from the floor where she’d left it, and tucking it into his comforter with her.  
She accepts it with the same sniff and regal disregard, and Steve leads her downstairs by the hand and down to Hopper, and then watches her troop out through the light dusting snow to the still-warm car. Hopper has to help her into the seat, as Steve leans against the doorway to watch, feeling disquieted, and _tired_.

And then they’re gone.

**Author's Note:**

> _____________________________________
> 
> Well, this has been sitting in my notes forever and the latest season only made me think MORE about how perfect this AU would be. Augh. SO here it is, I'm sorry if it's terrible, but if you want something done right you gotta do it yourself I guess. No beta, no edit, I don't know what those things _are_.
> 
> IE write the fic you want to see in the world. IF YOU DIDN'T READ THE PREVIOUS INSTALLMENT- Steve is a werewolf, Elle didn't poof, Steve is confusingly ride-or-die for Nancy and Jonathan.
> 
> I'm kind of happy I planted the seeds of werewolf lore in the first work, haha. And on that note, there's going to be a few Nancy/Jonathon/Steve bits and other one-shots before getting to seasons 2/3, but not in this one! It won't be endgame, but will be a large feature. Who else are you going to hide under the covers with, when no one else knows monster exist? And are either ages 13, or 40, with no in between? Also I'll touch more on Steve's sensory/behavioral issues that make him terrible.


End file.
